


Necessity

by EatSleepGoHome



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Flow of Thought, I really wanted this ship to happen lmao, Light Angst, M/M, Yearning, thoughts of a magic man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:48:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25585444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatSleepGoHome/pseuds/EatSleepGoHome
Summary: A certain magical man sits in Whitestone Castle and thinks about the burden placed on his shoulders. He isn't upset. He actually feels fine about the incoming dragon attacks more or less.It's the raven boy that lingers in his mind.
Relationships: Shaun Gilmore/Vax'ildan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	Necessity

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a flow-of-mind sort of story I wrote in 2016. I had a lot of angst about the situation of Vax picking Keyleth over Gilmore. It boiled my blood (still does a bit, I'm ashamed to admit) so I wrote this as a mourning for what could have been.
> 
> I love Vax. I love Keyleth.
> 
> I just love Gilmore a little, well, more.

People never actually asked about it. They just lingered around the subject without actually ever bringing it up. That was the most irritating part about it.

What else did people ever think around him? Nowadays he couldn’t exactly go about his usual business, be the man he left Shan’daal to be. The business he made was known, of course, but as of now it was in shambles in the middle of a terrorized, terrified city that he had never imagined being…like this. Really, he would have never set up business in Whitestone if he knew that dragons were often gazing toward it hungrily. Must’ve been in the fine print when he bought the place.

Ever since the siege, he almost wanted to throttle himself for being who he is. Why of all people did he have to be the kind one? The generous one? Why was he the one who so easily loved people, just for being people who meant well? While the rest of the city strayed around bars with rooves torn off, drinking ale and whiskey covered in the soot and blood and dragon flames, shouting and laughing to drown out the chattering of anxious, broken teeth, he was stuck in the castle of Whitestone. Must be nice. Must be quite fortified, quite protected, oh, how fortunate you must be to have such connections!

Sure, just goddamn fortunate. Years of experience helped, nearly thirty and a half years of it, and he was always noticeably charming. Vox Machina didn’t keep up with just everyone they knew, after all. The saviors of people, the protectors of cities, the slayers of beasts of burden, dragons not excluded, the fate-touched protagonists of a marvelous, fantastical, critical role of chance, and a bunch of buffoons capable of the most absurd drunk memories and horribly designed plans. Half the time he wondered just how these people managed to come back safe and sound after all of the nonsense they brought upon themselves. Still, he was happy to know them. They greeted him with near applause, and he didn’t mind that whatsoever, cheering his name as if he were just the man they wanted to see. In return, he loved to see them, not just as potential buyers, but friends.

He had been telling himself that since he was first stuck in this castle. He needs friends. Well, that statement isn’t entirely true. Which? Neither. Since the initial fall of the city to the dragons, he had been summoned by Allura, implored by nearly everyone else, to help manifest a gargantuan shield of blue light over the city, in hopes that the dragons wouldn’t be clever enough to see through it. It was no simple task. Still isn’t. Each and every morning he would use all that his body could muster to rejuvenate the light that would cover each and every head in an entire damn city. They all drink, they all enjoy, they all wait out and follow orders with little other thought, because what else should they think? Sustaining sanity and living life as normally as possible wasn’t easy either. Nothing was easy anymore.  
He didn’t complain. He never complained, certainly not to other people’s faces. How could he keep up such charisma with a bad attitude? Such a magnificent appearance with frown wrinkles? No, he kept a winning grin and a bodacious appearance, perfected by fuzzy robes at night and dyes of blues or purples at all other times, speckled with gold chains and vibrant rings and maybe a swish of abracadabra glitter to bring out the warm tan of his skin. That was his charm. He could pull all of this off without missing a step, or stepping on other people’s feet.

With a deep, proud voice tinged with plum at the ends, he always accepted whatever job he had to do with gusto. This awful, tiring, ridiculously exhausting shield was just part of the program, and despite how much he wished he could have gone out drinking with Vox Machina and Jarret, he could barely feel his hands. Still, the idea of Vax’idlan hoping that he would join them was comforting. To an extent.

Vax was, in fact, the center of the myriad of problems he had. Who was he? In all honesty, an overemotional wreck dedicated to a goddess he hadn’t known now for more than a few months. A man in his early twenties with a twin sister he would die for, who owned a bear he’d probably eventually have to die for just because of how useless it could be. Vax was a rogue, a user of knives, assassin of the night, champion of the Raven Queen by chance (fate? Who knew, really), and part of the heroes of Vox Machina. That’s what all the posters and fanboys said, not counting Kainan most likely, but not many knew about how Vax was also remarkably immature. A prankster to friend and goliath Grog, always laughing giddily in the background when gnomish bard Scanlan did…well anything, eventually having mental breakdowns only remedied by another gnome, a cleric, Pike and her goddess Sarenrae. Vax lived and breathed off of his emotions, sticking to whatever he felt was correct and barely ever budging from that. He could have created a new trend in emotional teenagers, clad in all black and eyeliner.

And for all of his faults, and all of his mistakes and ridiculous habits, the equally proud shield of the city loved Vax. A few years ago he was quite taken by the rogue, but that only began to matter after he was summoned by Allura. Those first days in the castle weren’t so terrible. Everyone did what they could. Allura went to take care of her own business, Kashaw went to train the soldiers alongside Jarret, Sherri was still here taking care of him and bringing groceries, and Vox Machina traversed the entire world in search of mythical and magical items, and honestly he was astonished that they found any. They were awful, awful planners.  
There was just that one day. That one day that really took a toll on whether or not his charismatic smile would stand as strong as it did. Whether or not it mattered if it did. He didn’t know the details surrounding it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know (the whole thing gave him chills) but apparently little Vax, along with the druid Keyleth, managed to piss off, of course, a Rakshasa. A shape-shifting, tiger-faced, vengeful, raging, nearly impossible to kill, very capable of return, even more capable of making a show sort of demon that he only ever imagined the worst of luck would introduce to him. Vax had a knack for being his most favorite and least favorite person in the world.

The Rakshasa came with a vengeance. It took his form, the robe, the wavy dark chocolate hair all tied back and messy, the enigmatic captivation of wanting to lure an oblivious Vax to a balcony of Whitestone Castle in the middle of the night. Yes, he loved the man, but even the deepest of loves have their limits when it comes to interrupting beauty sleep. Again, the thought of Vax following his likeness to a potentially romantic night made his stomach flip. What would have happened if that was him instead of the Rakshasa? What would Vax have expected? Why the devil was Vax so ready to do something like that when he had a busy schedule the very next day?

Unanswerable questions now. The Rakshasa stabbed Vax, still sporting his figure, and somehow had known their relationship enough to use that bitter night in a bar to its advantage. He wondered if Vax felt at all guilty before realizing that it wasn’t him, but he didn’t dwell on the idea for long. Vax could have easily dismissed the situation after the realization. That hurt in unconceivable ways.

He was just glad that the rogue was okay. A little stabbed, a little emotionally drained, a little bit wearing a cloak of flaying, but he was okay. That was what mattered. Also, the first time he could check on him, Vax happened to be naked. That is worth mentioning entirely. Yet it was this among other events that created a stepping stone path of heartache for him. First witnessing Vax like that, even getting the opportunity to analyze him a little bit, of course for the sake of making sure no curse was left on him. Of course. Right before that, Vox Machina needed to know whether or not it was really him that Keyleth fetched, and of course Vax’ildan could only come up with the most bitter memory they had, or at least one of them had, to show proof. That night when they were honest with each other.

That situation was in front of everyone. It was a little embarrassing, but he put on a smile and said back what that night was in as factual a way as possible. Maybe it wouldn’t feel so much like acid pouring onto his lips if it sounded like a warforged fresh out of isolation said it.

It didn’t.

Then there was the armor of the Raven Queen Vax sported later on. One use that Vox Machina had of him was that he could look at such magical objects and give a damn good assessment of their abilities. This armor was certainly unique. Did he know for a fact that the wings it could produce would begin working if Vax was pushed off of a cliff? Of course. Did he know that Vax would swoop back to hold him into the air, noting how magnificent of a bastard he was, just to set him down and pull him into the most agonizing hug he had ever experienced? Of course not. That was the beauty of Vax. His emotions went haywire so often that you never knew what he would do.

The hug hurt. It hurt like fire. It hurt because he knew that this hug was going to be scalded into his arms all along his back and into his lips for as long as he lived. Those memories you suppress only for them to leak out in the middle of the night? It belonged in that category. He could still remember the feel of Vax’s long arms wrapping around his shoulder and under his arm, clasping him diagonally with everything he had. He felt the pricks of precise, trained fingertips sink into the center of his back. The wisps of long, ebony hair flitting around just to fall so perfectly back into the huddle of feathers that warmed the space they shared despite the night. The soft pressure of Vax’s face, nose and lips, against the crook of his neck, marking the first time he had ever cursed himself for wearing a low-neck anything. The hot breaths of words before the hug, how he had followed those lips and forgotten the world around him, how up there in the sky they were in some sort of fantasy. There was nothing else but them. No one else but them, even after that bitter memory in the bar. It could still happen. He remembered the vibrancy in Vax’s boyish eyes that melted his heart, that made the whole thing worth it. He remembered how he wished the ground would never come, though he was the one who asked to be put down. He remembered how damn cold the night was afterwards.

He remembered that bitter, endlessly bitter night in that bar long before. Isn’t it funny? Vax’ildan can have a twin sister named Vex’ahlia, and that memory can have a twin sister of its own now. And because Vax was so poetic, he ended their talk, the words between them and only them, with “friend.” Bravo, rogue, bra-vo.  
There was no animosity. There was no hostility between them, at least he hoped. They were friends and understood each other. Of course, Vax felt there just wasn’t enough time shared, simply put. His heart drifted in the spaces of time between them. That’s only natural, he reminded himself often.

Each day he still worried about him and Vox Machina, wishing them safe travels and yearning for their safe returns. He kept himself busy by protecting the city and watching his body slowly waste away each day. Well, at least he was losing that weight magic could never really get rid of.

Yet as he sat in his room in the castle, feeling like a much more impressive and enigmatic version of Rapunzel, he knew that he hadn’t been repeating his need for companions because of the castle, or the strain on his body. He relished in how useful he was, how he could help people, and hell, who would turn down a safe place to stay? He hadn’t even been thinking that he needed friends. It was that moment, that slim moment in the sky that he would always run back to. It was the word “friends” that he despised but forced himself to accept.

He was happy for them. Happy for Vax. Happy for Keyleth. Happy that at least for them love would conquer all. Keyleth was certainly lucky, and he felt no animosity at all toward her. She was kind and beautiful, maybe a little bit awkward and often stuttering on simple words, but it beat a petty, proper, primped and polished princess. It beat it to hell. Vax was lucky, too.

And so with all that said and done, with him ready to move on, people still lingered around. He knew that this was the main subject to talk about. Even among friends there was that aura of curiosity concerning himself and Vax’ildan. No one ever brought it up. He certainly refused to do so, for the sake of them and his own sanity, but maybe it was the lack of real closure that made him want to bring it up even more.

It was the equivalent of an irrational want to punch that person sitting in front of you in the back of the head. You’ll never do it, but that fact alone makes you wish you could get away with it more. Isn’t that just great? It’s marvelous. Depressingly accurate. Just several years of his life condensed to a single moment.

Glorious.


End file.
